Quitting Time
by embroiderama
Summary: Dean finds a reason to quit smoking. sick!Sam Warning for coarse language.


Title: Quitting Time  
Author: embroiderama  
Characters: Dean & Sam  
Rating: PG-13  
Warnings: language  
Spoilers: none  
Word Count: 1,904  
Disclaimer: None of the Winchesters belong to me, alas.  
Summary: Dean finds a reason to quit smoking. (sick!Sam)

Notes: Written for **roque_classique** at the **spn_hurtcomfort** Christmas comment-fic meme.

In the end he quit because of Sammy. Not because of his pissy little bitch faces or his heavy, put-upon sighs--Dean was immune to that shit, had to be to have gotten through Sam's teen years. Sam could have asked Dean to quit smoking sixteen thousand times, and Dean would have told him to go fuck himself sixteen thousand different ways. Really, he thought he could come up with about that many different ways if he had the time, and all the cross-country driving they were doing gave him plenty of time.

Driving down the road in his baby, Zeppelin on the radio, cigarette in his hand, Sam in the passenger sear--it was pretty much heaven. The only thing that would have made it better was having the tail lights of Dad's truck out in front of him, or his headlights in the rearview mirror. So they were tracking down Dad and killing evil shit, and Dean was doing his best to get Sammy's head as far away from Palo Alto as he could.

Sam got a cold, and the damn thing just hung on, leaving Sam's nose red and chapped, his throat dry from snoring. They couldn't help having to run around out in the cold weather on hunts, but Dean tried to keep it warm inside the Impala, turned the heating vents over toward Sam and didn't roll his window down except when he couldn't help it. As December edged into Christmas, the cold sank into Sam's chest and not even dosing Sam up on Nyquil and himself up on whiskey would let either of them get a decent night's sleep.

Sam looked miserable, and when a short sprint in the cold air left him hacking, folded over himself with his hands on his knees, choking and wheezing, Dean dragged him into the closest clinic he could find. It was a small clinic, and Sam went in the exam room by himself but Dean stood out in the hall, leaning against the wall and keeping an eye out. Keeping an ear out.

There was nothing much to hear, just the usual rigamarole of taking temperature and blood pressure, Sam coughing every few seconds, and Dean thought about going outside to have a smoke while he could do it without having Sam's eyes on him. Then he heard the doctor's diagnosis--acute bronchitis, which sounded bad, sounded really not good.

The doctor continued. "And young man, your smoking isn't helping matters. I would strongly suggest that you try quitting."

"Um," Sam muttered, coughing again. "I don't smoke."

"Your clothing smells strongly of cigarette smoke." And Dean could hear the arched eyebrow. This guy was a dick.

"Yeah," Sam answered, "I know that. I'm kind of--" Sam broke off, hacking. "Around it a lot."

"You might want to do something about that. This could lead to something chronic, and you're awfully young for something like that."

Dean stood up straight, pulling his back away from the wall. He didn't really give a crap about fucking up his own lungs, but the idea that he was making Sam sick--keeping Sam sick, hurting Sam--that was wrong. It went against everything Dean knew he was supposed to do, and this was not on.

"Okay, you can put your shirt back on. I'm going to give you a prescription for some antibiotics, an expectorant, and an inhaler. Keep warm and stay out of smoky places, and you should be feeling a lot better in a few days. Okay?"

"I'll try." Dean could barely hear the words, but he knew there wasn't anything Sam could do, other than taking off, hightailing it back to California or someplace else where he wouldn't be smoked like a ham all day and night. Dean needed to try; he needed to try really fucking hard.

~~~

First thing first, Dean took Sam from the clinic to a new motel room--non-smoking room, and he made sure it didn't smell like smoke before he let Sam go inside. He turned up the heat and made Sam get into the bed farthest from the door, pushed Sam into taking his pills and puffing on the inhaler, put a bottle of orange juice in his hand and then left the room, taking Sam's jacket with him. Dean was reasonably confident that Sam wasn't going to choke to death while he was gone. He'd chatted up the hot pharmacy tech while they were waiting for the prescriptions, and she explained that when it came to bronchitis 'acute' wasn't a bad thing--just meant that it wasn't chronic. Sam would get better in a few days.

Still, the doctor's words were rattling around inside Dean's head, and he wanted a goddamn cigarette more than anything else just to calm his nerves. He was quitting. Had to quit, and he wouldn't do it for himself, but he would do it for Sammy.

He checked out of the old motel room and then dragged both of their clothing duffels into a coin laundry, leaving the windows of the car rolled down to air it out. He loaded all their shit into the machines, everything other than what he was wearing, and then walked across the street to the Family Dollar. They had men's sweatpants and cheap ass flannel shirts on sale for five bucks each, so he picked up one of each for himself and then wandered around looking at the Christmas displays. He pitched a box of candy canes into his basket, got a jug of juice and a box of tissues for Sam, a box of Ho-Ho's for the both of them. He stood in line at the cash register, and then got the old lady cashier to get him a pack of that Nicorette gum stuff from behind the counter.

Back at the laundromat, Dean went into the grubby little unisex bathroom to change his clothes, and he had to admit that in green sweatpants, a blue flannel shirt, and boots he looked like some kind of retarded clown. Probably scare Sam half to death, but at least he wouldn't hurt the kid's lungs. Anymore than he already had. He shoved the clothes he'd just taken off into another washer with the empty duffel bags and transferred the rest of the loads into dryers. He chewed a piece of the nicotine gum, trying to follow the directions on the box, but it tasted like shit. Jesus, gum was supposed to taste good.

He unwrapped one of the candy canes, and at least that tasted good, the sticky sweet mint covering up the chemical-weird mint of the gum. And it felt good to have something in his hand, something in his fingers, his mouth. He caught himself holding the candy cane like a cigarette and then shrugged. He already looked fucking ridiculous, not much point worrying about his image at the moment.

Finally, the laundry was all done. Dean went back over to the Family Dollar for a box of trash bags, loaded up the clean clothes in them so they wouldn't get covered in the smoke stink of the car all over again. Back at the motel, Sam was deep asleep, his breath already sounding clearer than it had in the morning. He was still congested, but the wheeze was gone. Sam would be okay.

~~~

They spent three days in the motel room, and Sam slept a lot, took hot showers to loosen up the crap in his lungs. Dean ran out a couple times a day to get food, and every time he got in the car his fingers itched to reach for a pack of cigarettes. He'd given the rest of his packs to a homeless guy with a sign that said he was a veteran, and he wanted to drive back by, see if he could bum one of them off the guy. The gum took the edge off, but it made his gums sting, and it just fucking wasn't the same.

Dean spread out all the guns on his bed and cleaned them, took inventory of the ammo, polished the blades of all the knives. He organized the trunk, detailed the interior of the car, and shined up the chrome, all of it with a candy cane held in his lips or teeth. He liked to suck it down to a narrow, tapering point and then crunch the fragile, skinny stick left. The taste of them, the sickly sweet sugar rush, was starting to make him sick ever time he slid a new one in across his tongue, but he didn't know what else to do. He thought he might have to switch to some of that cinnamon toothpaste because the whole mint thing was getting out of hand.

The third day of their stay, the sky opened up and dumped icy cold rain and sleet down on them, and Dean was stuck inside. Sam was feeling better, still coughing up gunk now and then but breathing clear and not sleeping all day. He was sitting in bed with his laptop propped on his knees, and Dean was on his own bed, flipping through the channels looking for something to watch that would distract him from wanting to chew his own fingers off in search of a trace of nicotine. He watched a few minutes of an old Law & Order and then started moving through the channels again, chomping on the end of another candy cane.

Sam sighed heavily. "Would you go smoke or something? Jesus."

"I quit," Dean muttered.

"You WHAT?" Sam twisted to face Dean, his laptop sliding off his knees to land sideways on the bed.

"I said I quit." The attention was pissing Dean off, and he knew it was irrational, but damn it. "Your ears clogged up now or what?"

"No, hey, that's great. When did this happen?"

Dean split the wrapper on a new candy cane with his thumb nail. "Three days ago."

"Three--oh." Sam went quiet for a moment. "You didn't have to do that."

"You want me to start again? I can totally do that." Except he totally wouldn't, at least not until Sam left again and Dean didn't have to worry about hurting anybody other than himself.

"That why you're going through the candy canes like they're beer flavored?"

"Ugh. Shit, Sammy, I wish they were."

"So you're going to rot your teeth now?"

"I brush."

"But all that sugar, dude."

"Tooth decay wouldn't dare invade this mouth."

"Uh-huh." Sam picked his laptop back up and typed something. Probably doing a Google search on oral hygiene, the big freak.

~~~

The next morning, the sun was out, and Sam was barely coughing at all. They had a lead on an easy hunt two days' drive away, so Dean got everything loaded in the car while Sam went to the office to check out. When Sam got into the car, he took a deep sniff with his now-clear nose and smiled.

"What?" Dean said, uncomfortable again with Sam knowing he was doing this thing, working on quitting.

"What what?" Sam parroted back.

Dean just rolled his eyes and put the car in reverse. They were a mile down the road, Dean steering with one hand and twirling a candy cane in the other, when Sam opened his mouth again.

"Thanks," he said. "Thanks, Dean."

Dean just put his hand on the wheel and kept on driving.


End file.
